Going Home
By Musuko

I laid naked, eyes closed. I felt the sweat-damp sheets under my back. I felt the distant vibration, heard the low thrum-thrum, and knew that the engines burned their diesel fuel into our forward motion, somewhere deep in the metal heart of this mobile amusement park. I knew the room lay in darkness. I knew that the wrinkled sea swept past from right to left beyond the open glass doors that led to my balcony, glazed by a pale ocean moon. I could hear the music from the decks above, and the voices of parents enjoying themselves while their children slept safely in their cabins below.
Children.
In the not too distant past, the current circumstances of my life would have caused me much frustration. A cruise ship represents both heaven and hell for a monster like me; a swarming mass of delightful children, alive and buzzing with the energy of their holiday. Sweet, innocent and trusting, allowed to roam unseen and unsupervised, because what harm could come to those little sweethearts out here, in the middle of the ocean, with two crew members for every passenger, and nowhere for them to hide, and nowhere for any attacker to hide.
Thus, the hell of my situation. Water water everywhere, but not a drop to drink. It would madden me. It would drive me towards insensible action. It would lead to my destruction.
But I breathed easily in the cool sea air. The past fracture in my psyche no-longer gripped me in the same way. It remained, of course; a deep crack down the center of my mind, of my soul. But water had seeped in there, frozen and thawed, pressing open that crack and reshaping it. The unspeakable itch that drove me now did not resemble the one that once had. Before the yacht. Before the fire, the explosion, the life raft. The slow, aching drift to shore. And then...recovery.
Changed. The faces I wished to see broken by terror no-longer scampered about amongst those tiny creatures laughing and playing in the cabins and corridors all around me. Strange, really, considering my location of the last year; the chaotic, broken coast of Africa, where so many lived as I do; as a rogue, willing and able to do as they pleased. I had...experiences.
	Strange, really. To live life hunting and seeking and destroying children, knowing that the hounds both literal and metaphorical chased you at every moment, and then to wash up in a world where one can turn down the right alley in the right warlord-controlled nightmare of a city and obtain a child with only a single question; how much?
	I felt a shiver tickle me that did not come from the cool air. I remembered those nights, where the screams felt the same, the struggles and the pleading, and the final eventual silence. But, at the level where it mattered, it felt so different, and for the first time in my life I had felt something so very unusual for a creature such as me; disgust.
	What does an addict do when their drug fails to satisfy them? I drifted for so long, wracked by an upheaval of my very being. Mercifully, the answer came via simple pragmatic self-preservation. I knew there remained a chance that the wolf may have survived the yacht. And if that occurred, the wolf could speak, and the hounds could arrive at the shores of Africa to find me. If that happened, I would end up in trouble. My home lands may tremble under the watchful eyes of a million cameras, but I knew how to operate under those conditions, thrived even. But there, amongst the strangers in a strange land, I could not remain certain of myself. The strategies and tactics that my life’s experiences had built became useless to me, even dangerous if used carelessly.
	So, I fell back on the one sure truth of my life: that you can buy anything with money, or steal it with a knife. Cast adrift in the sea with no hope and no consciousness on that fateful day, my shrewd precautions had ensured that the lining of my jacket contained six credit cards of varying identities, and a simple laminated information card containing a telephone number and a list of numbers one could mistake for telephone numbers, but in actuality each represented an account held within that most secretive mountainous tax haven.
	Such funds enabled a burned and starved mouse to recover his dignity, and then his power, and then his future. He became a businessman, seeking development opportunities, flying just high enough for royal treatment, but low enough to stay off the radar of those who entertain thoughts of regicide. I explored Africa. I enjoyed myself. But ever the threat awaited over the seas. So I found a policeman for whom the knife remained in my pocket, my paw full of cash proving enough lubrication for him. And so I learned of my wolf, fished alive from the wreckage of the yacht, taken for treatment.
	And then dying.
	And past the official documentation, I could sense the hint of another motive at play. That damn cat. We had eachother in a stalemate, and we both knew it. I could not destroy him without bringing the dangerous weight of his organisation down on me, bringing about my demise. Likewise, he could not bring me to justice, because the moment my mouth opened he knew that his involvement in my activities would become known to those self same authorities, and even his organisation could not protect him then.
	And similarly, I knew he could not kill me. The cat may think himself sly and manipulative, and a certain brand of evil, but he most certainly existed at a different level of evil to me. He would not kill me. And he would not kill the wolf. Because though the wolf could talk, and could lead the forces of justice to catch me, and in turn the cat, he would not bring himself to snuffing out that threat. After all, the wolf had done nothing to deserve it. In the cat’s eyes, at least.
	So. An alternative then. With the records of the wolf’s death faked. the cat had the wolf. Probably alive. Probably badly damaged. But alive and capable of speaking, therefore a threat to me and the cat in turn. So the cat would have him, hidden away somewhere in that organisation of his.
	And the substitute drug presented itself for me. The challenge. Victims that could put up a fight. Victims that could inflict risk on me. I felt almost nauseated at the cheap satisfaction I had once enjoyed with children. How could I get a thrill of power over a powerless victim when that victim had never held any sort of power in the first place?
	I knew my eventual goal. I would return home, slip through the broken armour of that country’s border defences, and find where the cat hides amongst his almighty CKC, and find that wolf. I would take my knife to one or both of them, of that I knew. And between me and that goal lay an immeasurable gulf of difficulty. And oh how wonderful it would feel to make powerless those who held so much power over me. To see that same expression on the cat’s face as the one he wore that first night when he thought the mouse that had tied him to the bed had the name Lethias, not Terik. Oh how could I have wasted my time with such petty satisfactions, when moments like that existed?
	And so many other moments besides. My thoughts turned towards the cabin that lay beyond the wall at my head. A challenge awaited in there. Or would do soon. I knew the clock lay to my right, but I didn’t open my eyes to look. I could estimate the time, and knew that he would return soon. Spinning drunk, perhaps. Or tangled up in the arms of another woman too drunk to allow her alarm bells to ring. I had myself a little smile. It felt nice to know that I had power over him, even before our meeting; I would dictate his evening just as surely as he imagined he would dictate it. I knew the options. I could predict them. If he returned accompanied, I would lay and hear the noises of his pleasure, and hear the muffled cries of her distress. And then her walk of shame would come all too soon, another ashamed woman drunkenly walking back to her cabin to vomit up the seed of a selfish dick, both literal and metaphorical.
	I heard the click, then the beep of the keycard lock. I heard the yell.
	“Fucker!”
	The click and beep again. And again and again. Finally the double-beep, and the crash of a door kicked open to hit the flimsy wall. A slam as loud as a gunshot, and the clatter of pocket shrapnel dancing against a bathroom counter. More bangs, of indeterminate origin. And then, inevitably, the muffled noises of retching, as my friend from the cabin next door emptied out his alcohol-filled stomach into the ship’s plumbing.
	Alone, then. Wonderful. I wouldn’t have to wait. I rose from the bed, peeling off of the sticky sheets. My clothes of choice lay waiting for my in the chair opposite. Ah, Jamie, you naive little boy. So sweetly you knelt for me, your adorable little bunny mouth eager to serve yours truly, whom you knew as Lucian, a tired executive away for some secret fun away from his overbearing wife, a man who had lived and grown always feeling a longing for something different from the female form. And sweet, sweet Jamie, you came into his life, everything he could hope and wish for. The gayest little fem-bunny amongst a crew full of gay fem-boys. I almost envied my adopted persona. He could run away with you, start a new life of love and sweaty affection. Who knows, perhaps my cracked mind would change again, and I would find myself seeking that pretty bunny face and body again?
	But for now, Jamie, you remain a pleasant memory, and a steward’s uniform that you probably won’t notice missing until some day to come when you find your wardrobe one set of crisp cotton clothing short. And oh you looked good wearing it. As will I. My days of starved drifting, and my months in Africa had proved good for my figure. Lean and taut. My closet-bound Lucian had looked after himself, a gym-boy at heart. Just the right kind of creature to cast glances at a boy’s body and get glances back in return.
	And oh yes, my victim from the next cabin. I had seen the way you glance at the tight butts of the crew as they passed you, even while you had some girl on your arm. A lady’s man, with an eye for the lady-men. I know your type; it’s all good so long as it’s pretty and you can put your dick in it.
	The uniform felt good on my fur. I felt clean and fresh with it on, clean and proper. A strange feeling, an ambivalent mixture of power, over those without the uniform, and of slavery, to the system to which the uniform belonged.
	As I inspected myself in the mirror, listening to him next door groan into the porcelain, I wondered again about my brother. These thoughts and feelings felt like they belonged to him. Perhaps one cannot escape genetics after all; we entered the world so very different to each other, but would meet in the middle as we aged and altered.
	The crash of a dropped toilet lid, and a flush. Now was the time. I left my cabin and strode to his door, neatly rapping my knuckles against it; rattatatat.
	“Fuck off!” came the charming voice from beyond the door.
	I knocked again. “Sir,” I said, wearing a voice so unfamiliar to me, yet so easy to use. “Could you open the door, please?”
	He thumped like a walrus towards the door, and I heard him beat at the handle until it submitted. The door opened a crack, and his red-ringed, red-tinted eye peered out. I waited with a serene, polite smile, and saw it as I expected; the surprised raise of the eyebrow, as one rare albino spies another.
	“What do you want?” he said, some of the venom gone from his voice.
	“Apologies for the interruption, sir,” I said, gracefully channeling the mannerisms of my brother; the gentle lilt in my voice, the graceful poise of my body, the constant motion and sensual flick of my tail, and, above all else, the pink-eyed ever-present lustful hunger in my eyes, locked in a state of constant flirtation with all they regard. I saw his attention flicker to my uniform, then back to my eyes. Then a second, longer look at my uniform, and I acted out an absent-minded stroke of my paw down my hip to smooth out an imaginary wrinkle, and to make sure his attention drew down there where I wanted. It worked; his eyes settled there and stayed there. That’s it, you drunken horny creature; check out the white mouse in the white cotton uniform. Everyone knows the male crew on these ships are all gay, and will suck your dick for a tip. You just need to ask. Invite them in, make them kneel for you. I knew it to as true, and he knew it to as true, and I had him staring at my body through the very uniform that graced the body of an eager bunny boy who knelt down for me in just the same way he now hoped I would for hid.
	“Some of the guests have reported issues with their cabin air conditioning units, so we’re checking them all as a precaution. Would you mind if I came in to check yours? It should only take a minute.”
	“Uh. Yeah, whatever.” He swung the door open and leant against it. In truth, he hung from it, in danger of collapsing without it. Staring at him felt like looking in a mirror; white fur against white fur, red eyes staring into red, both bodies slim and dancing on the edge of femininity, but both expressions capable of wearing the foulest of scowls, even though mine at present wore the prettiest of friendly professional politeness. We could pass as twins, if not for the unfortunate disparity in our species. Terik, the albino mouse, and this stranger next door, an albino bat, who at present wore nothing more than a cheap pair of cotton boxers and a grubby old band t-shirt, complete with conspicuous vomit stains. So charming. But then, had I not appeared just as rough on so many occasions?
	He stepped out of the way, gesticulating towards the room with his wing-webbed paws. “Knock yourself out.”
	“Thank you, sir. This will only take a minute.”
	I moved over to his balcony doors and stood up on tiptoes to reach the air-conditioning unit above them. Behind me I heard what I want to hear: the click of the cabin door closing. I made a halfway decent show of fiddling with the access panel, but all my attention really focused on tensing my rear into a perfect slutty bubble butt. My brother does it naturally. I do it shamelessly and intentionally. But, in the end, we both do it only to get what we want.
	“Nice ass!”
	I did not, however, expect him to speak that bluntly. For a moment I suffered an unwelcome confusion, but luck had ensured only the air-conditioning unit could see my face. By the time I turned my head to look at him over my shoulder, my face wore a coy smile.
	“Thank you sir,” I said, snapping shut the little cover over the air-conditioning unit’s control panel. I dropped down onto my heels and turned to face him. “This all looks fine, sir. Sorry to have bothered you.” I caught my lower lip with my teeth, then flitted a glance down his body, all very carefully calculated and crafted motions. “Would you...like anything else sir?”
	He grins. Oh yes. Yes, he would.

Sex for me never really ranked highly amongst my favourite life experiences. And oddly, for the monster that I am, it rarely overlapped with the need I had to put a knife to a victim’s throat and hear their screams. In the few occasions where it had, and that damn cat comes to mind, I can’t get my mind settled for days afterwards.
	So, with this bat, things progressed quite innocently. I learned his name.
	“Bee bee?”
	“B.B.”
	“What does it stand for?”
	“Just B.B,” he said, scowling. “It doesn’t stand for anything.”
	And I learned about his little secret. I saved the bulk of my questions about it for later. For the time being, I avoided kissing him. I put my mouth to better use...lower down.
	“Say anything about it to anyone and I’ll break your head, mouse!”
	“I promise I won’t,” I said, wondering how he really believed he can keep it a secret, when anyone with eyes could see it every time he opened his mouth. You don’t often see a bat with a cock for a tongue. I had seen stranger, though. And so had my alter-ego, Lucian. And he said as such. “I’ve seen weirder,” said my Lucian. “You see a lot when you work the cruise ships.”
	And then little more remained to say. My mouth went to his cock; the other one, the one in his boxers. And as I sucked it to hardness, I heard a most interesting voice above me.
	“Oh thuck thath good,” he moaned. Mouth full? I looked up to see him eyes closed in bliss, head resting back against the wall, with the cock swollen in his mouth and protruding three inches beyond his lips, growing further as my mouth worked his lower cock. It seemed that as one grew, as did the other. I felt a drip on my head, the precum drooling from the tip of his cock tongue, just as the one in my mouth delivered the taste to my tongue. An interesting experience, to say the least.
	And true to form with what I had observed of this bat so far on this ship, as soon as he had shot his feeble, beer-addled load into my throat, and splattered the same across the top of my head and down the back of poor Jamie’s uniform, he pushed my head away and staggered over to the bed, collapsing onto the untidy sheets with his face down in the pillows. He waved a paw up at me.
	“You can fuck off now.”
	Ever so charming, I thought, as I wiped his cum from the corner of my mouth. But I struggled to hate him. Oh sure, I planned awful things for him. But...did I really? What happens when a bastard meets a bastard? Mutual destruction, or mutual acceptance?
	I opened his cabin door, held it open for a three second count, then clicked it closed. I stood silent, just inside the door, watching his lower body sprawled on the bed, his feet hanging bare off the edge, so long and slender, with thin toes and carpet grime between them. I couldn’t see his head, blocked by the corner of the bathroom, but I didn’t mind. I could tell what I needed to know from the sound of his breathing, I could wait.
	And I didn’t have to wait long. Nor did I have to strain to spot the subtle difference between wakefulness and sleep. This bastard snores like a bastard, a fact I knew from a series of noisy nights next door. Another useful fact I knew: that he could sleep through anything. In particular, he could sleep through an irritated mouse’s banging fist on the wall.
	And finally, the most useful fact of all: anything in the world can find a new and more sinister purpose, when used properly, with the appropriate tools. The tool in question at this point? The pair of scissors in my uniform’s pocket. I opened his wardrobe door to the heap of unfolded, scrunched up t-shirts piled messily, still inside his suitcase, and got to work.

The most delicate part of the process involved rolling him over onto his back. He didn’t wake. Such a drunken mess, with the limp tongue in his mouth caked with a smear of dried cum, with more of it dribbled down his chin. Charming. I positioned his slim limbs towards the corners of the bed and used cut strips of his t-shirts to tie his wrists and ankles to the legs of the bed. Ah, this felt so wonderfully familiar. I had missed this. I spent too much of my time in Africa running around trying to understand the place, and not enough time on this simple, effective process. Once I had him where I wanted, spread taut and exposed, I worked the scissors through his clothes, cutting them away to rags easily removed. Still he did not wake. Not until the final moment, when I sat on his chest and poised the wide open blades of the scissors over his throat, my paws gripping the finger holes. I leaned down, nearly bent double, and positioned my mouth right over his radar dish ear...and whistled loudly.
	His eyes shot open and his whole body bucked.
	“Ow! What the fuck?!”
	I gave him a moment to get a sense of his situation. First his arms tugged, then his legs. Then his attention caught on my sweetly smiling face. And finally, he followed my arms down to his throat and saw the blades against his throat.
	“What the-”
	“Quiet.” I squeezed the blades, just enough to make my point. But the dim bastard didn’t quite get it. He started to shriek. I shifted the scissors into one paw and brought the other down in a stinging slap against his cheek. He gaped in hurt confusion, but mercifully his noise stopped.
	“Better. Now, B.B, let’s us have a chat.”
	“Get off of me! I’ll get you fired! Fuck, what is this?” Seems he had enough smarts to whisper rather than yell this time. His eyes kept darting up and down, to the scissors, to my eyes.
	“You know, B.B, I kinda like you. I might not show it right now, so you’ll have to take my word for it.” I eased the pressure on the scissors a little. I felt his throat moving beneath the blades, working and shifting with fearful swallows. “You’re a dickhead. Literally and metaphorically.” I allowed myself a chuckle. A lot of these little dualities had turned up lately. I felt like the universe had thrown me from reality and into some neatly planned fiction. I liked it. Who had the role of protagonist? Me? Or did I occupy the antagonist position? Hmm!
	“Oh,” I said, musing a little. “I don’t work here either. Just so you know. In fact, I have the cabin next door,” I said, jerking my head to the wall. “Been hearing you a lot. You’re a total, utter bastard. But you know that, don’t you?”
	A little spittle bubbled at his lips. His eyes danced with lovely fear, but his words hissed with spite. “You fucker,” he said. So much venom.
	“Yeah, I am. But here’s the thing. Normally, I’d start here, like this, and end things with you in a grave somewhere. But that can’t really happen right now, can it? Burial at sea? Sure, I could do that. But I can’t exactly make a getaway. So, that really can’t happen. Shame, right?”
	All arrogance gone. A trembling, timid-eyed bat. Had the anger left his face by virtue of self-preservation, or by simple natural replacement by the more overwhelming emotion of fear? Who could say. If I could analyse the mind so, I probably wouldn’t turn to violence to ease my mental itch.
	“Speaking of which,” I said, no doubt leaving him puzzled in the absence of an ear inside my head, “I just don’t feel the craving with you. Oh sure, I want to hurt you...I want to hurt you a lot.” I twitched the blades, and received a lovely little squeak from him, almost like a mouse. I liked that noise on his lips just as much as I hated it on my own. A noise of shame and distress, without dignity or pride. Such a thing for prey. “But I don’t want to kill you.”
	“That’s fucking good to know!” he hissed bitterly. “Then what do you want?”
	“Truthfully...I don’t really know.” I drummed my fingers against the scissors for a moment. “If you scream, I’ll put them right back and do something very painful,” I said, lifting the scissors away and laying them on the bed beside his head, blades open and ready in case I needed them.
	“Great,” he whispered. “Now you can untie me and get the fuck out of my room.”
	I flicked my finger against his chin, and the glare he sent my way...oh so priceless.
	“That cock in there cause you some problems, dickhead?”
	“Shut the fuck up?”
	“You probably should answer me.”
	“Alright! Fuck. What do you think? Course it does.”
	“Where did you get it?”
	“I dunno man. Born with it. How the fuck should I know?”
	“Maybe your mother drank pregnant with you.”
	“Probably!”
	I didn’t expect agreement. I expected anger. How dare you insult my mother, that sort of thing. I smiled with genuine amusement. Yeah, I liked this bastard.
	“What’s B.B stand for?”
	“Nothing. It’s just B.B.”
	I reached for the scissors, and he surged underneath me. I rose up on my knees to ride out his struggle.
	“Alright,” he hissed. “It stands for-”
	“Bitch bat?”
	“No! It’s-”
	“Bitch bastard?”
	“Bartholomew Bonaparte!”
	I let go of the scissors and laughed. I didn’t even laugh to humiliate him. I laughed because I found it funny. The rage blush that filled his ears just made it all the better.
	“Shut up!” he squealed, bravado gone, but getting a bit too loud. I slapped his cheek.
	“Shush. Well Barty, it’s nice to meet you. You can call me Terik.”
	“I thought your name was Lucian.”
	“I said that, but I lied. So, Bart-bat. A few things to go over. Firstly, you won’t report my fun to anyone, will you?” My paw settled on the scissors, and he quickly shook his head. “Well, I feel so very glad that you won’t. I wouldn’t want to have to find you and do something rotten to you, just because you did something as silly as trying to get me arrested.”
	“What do you want?” he whispered. And this time, I felt like answering him.
	“I want to play with you, dickhead.” I smiled again. Such a good nickname. “I want to play with your head-dick, dickhead.”
	I reached down behind me, to the bed between his legs. I had shredded a pair of his dirty, smelly socks, and wadded up two small balls of the foul cotton and soaked them in water. These two damp balls I now placed on his chest, holding them with my fingertips to stop them rolling away with his shaky breathing. He looked at them, puzzled and rightfully fearful.
	“These will go in your nose.” He opened his mouth to say something, but I continued on. “And then I will suck your cock.”
	Uncertain silence. “What?”
	“I will plug your nose, and then suck your cock.”
	He had no immediate answer. I could see the cogs turning in his drunken head. Bless him, he didn’t understand. I offered him a lifeline. I would have no fun if he figured it out too late.
	“If one cock gets hard, they both do, right?”
	“Yeah,” he breathed. “It’s fucking annoying.”
	“Fills your mouth up, doesn’t it?”
	“Yeah.”
	Almost there. His brow knitted in deep thought.
	“Stops you breathing through your mouth when it gets hard like that,” I said. “Doesn’t it?”
	His eyes widened. Bingo. I picked up the balls of cotton and moved them to his nose. He flinched away, but I slapped his cheek and glanced pointedly at the scissors. He lay still, gaze fixed on me, as I pushed the balls into his nostrils and drove them deep with my thumbs. He squealed and clenched his eyes shut. I imagined it didn’t feel very pleasant.
	“Relax, bat. You’ve already cum less than an hour ago. You should have no problem controlling yourself.”
	“You thaid you wooden kee me.”
	“And I won’t,” I said brightly. “But your cock might. And they’ll find your body untied, splashed with your own orgasm, nose blocked as if by your own doing, your blood full of alcohol, just another twisted pervert succumbing to auto-erotic asphyxiation. You’ll die, and I won’t suffer as a suspect. Wonderful, don’t you think?”
	“Plead don do dees. I’ll do anyfeeng.”
	“Just try to relax,” I said, sliding my way down his body and laying between his legs. His cock lay limp against his thigh, caked with the dried stain of his cum, still smelling faintly of my toothpaste. “You will need to concentrate. Think about unsexy things, perhaps?”
	I danced my breath against the tip of his cock. I watched it twitch.
	“Try not to think about the friendly sailor mouse who let you plunge your cock into his mouth.”
	“I’m nuht ghay!”
	“Of course you’re not,” I said, with no mockery in my tone. “You’re just an equal-opportunity bastard, Barty-bat. I get that. I really do.” I darted my tongue, tickling his sensitive tip, and watched it rise up away from his thigh, starting towards hardness. “So long as it feels wet and warm and it whimpers at you just right, perhaps even with begging eyes and paws pressed in panic against your thighs as you drive your cock into their throat and make them gag, it doesn’t matter the gender, right?”
	“Sthup!” he moaned. I watched his cock rise up, half-hard now, his memories and imagination doing what my mouth currently didn’t need to do.
	“Did you like it, dick-breath? The way I squeaked and struggled while you fucked my throat? I play a good little gay submissive, don’t I?” I blew a warm breath across the head of his cock, then leaned in to close my lips around it for a little suckle.
	“Mmmph!” he cried. His cock yanked from my lips as he rolled his hips to the side. “Gethoffame!”
	“Something the matter, bat? Getting too excited?”
	“Yeth!”
	“”Want me to stop?”
	“YETH!”
	I looked up at his head. Cock sticking out from his muzzle, dribbling precum down onto his chin, the way his properly-positioned cock did the same to his balls. Quite a leaker, this one.
	“I could help you in two ways, you know.”
	“Mmmph!” I had my paw on his balls, and I had squeezed hard.
	“I could go nice and fast for you, make you cum hard and quickly, so you can probably survive if you hold a nice big breath and wait until your spent cock gets soft.”
	“Mmmph! Mmmmmmph!”
	“Or I could keep doing things like this,” I said, kneading his balls hard between my fingers. Oh how I imagined it must hurt. “And see if I can get you safely soft again. Which do you want to do, dickhead? Cock-breath? Barty-boy? Race for orgasm, or pain?”
	“Bain! Bain!”
	“Pain?”
	“Baaaain!”
	“You want me to hurt you? Like this?” I said, gripping and twisting his nuts ninety degrees. He bucked on the bed and screamed. Or at least, he tried to. The bondage kept him from going very far, and the thick, hard dick filling his mouth turned his scream into a pathetic whimper.
	“Yeth! Hurth me hurth me huuuurth meee!” He broke down into sobs, and his skinny body quaked with the intensity of them. I felt wonderful. This worked so much better than the cut of a knife and the spray of blood, all of which I couldn’t do without some difficult questions from housekeeping and whatever passed for security and law on a cruise ship. But in the absence of my normal tricks, I had discovered something new.
	And no wonder. You can’t twist a child’s head like this. They didn’t have enough of a self built yet. Their minds still operated with obedience, to the parent, to the teacher, and their abuser just slid into that position of authority, and they obeyed you to make the pain go away.
	Whereas this adult squirming and crying under me...well, he had grown past that point. He had an identity, a will and a resolve, and he could make decisions for himself and exist as his own architect of his life. So when I stole it all that power away from him…
I twisted his nuts back the other way and rolled one of the two firm orbs inside between my thumb and knuckle. He screamed through the rapidly-softening cock in his muzzle and shook so hard against the bed that I thought he might break it.
...well, then it actually means something. Oh this felt euphoric.
I released his nuts. His cock was nearly soft all the way. His screams had become louder, and perhaps the inhabitants of the cabin on the opposite side from mine might complain about the noise. Or...they might have, if an anonymous and reasonably wealthy benefactor hadn’t passed a credit card over the concierge counter yesterday and got them upgraded to a luxury suite. Between two empty cabins, this bat could scream as loud as he liked. But not too loud. And so, naturally, I had to do the cruellest thing I could do to him at this point…
...I moved my lips back to his cock to suck on it again. The misery-filled moan he let out went right into my list of all-time favourite sounds. And the night ahead waited, long and unbroken, ready to for us to fill it.

The number of times I had shared coffee with one of my victims, before this day, counts up to precisely zero. Now I would have to say it has happened once. A strange morning.
	I watched him from over the tops of my mug. He avoided my gaze, looking anywhere but; at the waitresses mainly. Every time I made a motion, such as sipping my coffee, he flinched. He hadn’t touched his coffee yet. I didn’t ask, but just assumed the reason; no-one wants to dip their dick in scalding liquid.
	He sucked at his lip again. And this hinted at the reason for my watching him. I had left him without release this morning, after a night of dancing him back and forth from the brink; pleasure to the edge of suffocation, then pain to the edge of madness. So when I finally allowed him to rest, he could get his cocks no softer than half-hard chubbies. And if I had thought he had leaky cocks before, I would think of him as a burst water main now. Every minute or so he would suck at his lip to gulp down and swallow the precum that would dribble down his chin if he didn’t. And the action wonderfully self-sustained: each suck teased his cock just that little bit more.
	And beneath the table, the same constant flow continued with no way to hide it; every drop soaked into his grungy jeans, without even a thin pair of boxers to absorb any of it. And, of course, I helped him along; my shoes lay on the floor. My socked feet rested in his lap, framing his tented crotch, my toes idly stroking up and down the sides of his head.
	“Drink up,” I said.
	His eyes met mine, only for a moment. “Thtill too hot,” he said, mouth thick and full with his swollen cock, only barely held invisible inside the confines of his mouth, threatening to push past his lips at any moment.
	“Drink,” I said, with a firmness in my voice.
	“ith’ll eurn.”
	“I know it’ll burn,” I said. “So drink up.”
	I held my mug to my lips, enjoying a long sip. My smile spread either side of the rim, and I watched him lift the mug to his mouth. His eyes met mine again, and just for a moment a little of the old defiant spirit broke through. I felt glad to see it hadn’t been beaten from him entirely, not just yet anyway. He took and held a breath, then clenched his eyes shut and tipped back the mug.
	“Mmmph!” He half dropped, half set the mug back down, splashing coffee onto the table. He swallowed quickly, but the damage was already done. He opened his mouth wide and fanned his mouth.
	“Wawwa! Wawwa!”
	“I’ll call the waitress.”
	“Nuh!”
	I waved over the pretty chipmunk girl who had served us, and delighted in her stunned expression. “Is everything alri- oh!”
	“Could you bring a glass of water for my friend, please?” I said. She had her paw to her mouth, and I couldn’t tell if it hid shock or laughter, or both. She scampered away, and the bat glared at me with anger that matched the coffee in temperature. His ears too seemed to blaze.
	“I don’t think she thought much of your cock, dick breath,” I said. I massaged my toes over the head of his lower cock. I wondered how the pathways in his brain were coping with this; one cock scalded, the other teasingly massaged. Both seemed to connect up with the same wiring; pleasure to one would harden them both. So did they merge together into a mixed pleasure-pain for him? Who could say. I just knew that my stroking attentions kept both cocks nice and hard, with one most definitely and humiliatingly visible.
	She returned with water, setting it down without word and hurrying away. Barty boy lunged for the glass, but I reached it first and slid it over to my side of the table.
	“You may have this water,” I said, “when you have finished your coffee.”
	“You bathdard!”
	I curled my toes and sank the blunt, but very hard, points of my toes against the sensitive flesh of his cockhead. He squeaked past the thick impediment of his cock tongue, and lifted his mug in a shaking paw to treat his most delicate of organs to another steaming bath of hot coffee.
	Oh I did like my new friend!

Landfall. My feet finally felt the touch of the earth again. Well, of concrete at any rate. And at my arm, intertwined like a lover, stood my bat. I held no knife to his side, as even my home nation’s lax border checks might discover it, leading to uneasy questions. But I held enough over him to keep him in check. After all, with a week of close company behind us, with so many nights spent intimately in each-other’s company, we had learned a lot about each other.
	Well, I had learned a lot about him at any rate. Including where he lived, and how to thoroughly destroy him. This knowledge kept him comfortably at my side. And, when my suitcase came to us with the porter, my charming bat took it upon himself to carry it for me. How very sweet!
	He looked tired. I couldn’t blame him. Could he even count the nights he had spent tied to his luxurious cabin bed, enjoying the delicate attentions of a mouse who could not dip into his deeper reservoir of skills, having to rely instead on more playful tortures? What joys one can find in a cruise ship cabin! Hot water from the room kettle; so many places where that can be poured. A steaming hot enema! I enjoyed having thought of that one. Sugar sachets? Torn open and sprinkled into his eye, with the lids pulled wide open. Oh how he squealed into the t-shirt stuffed tight into his mouth. And how lovely for him to have chosen a smoking room. Over and over I could light up a cigarette, immediately remember that I don’t smoke, and then find myself forced to find a spot on his body to stub it out. I especially liked pressing them down right into the soft flesh between his toes.
	And each morning after his sleepless nights, his attitude changed, little by little. Still he glared, still he hissed threats and insults of a most entertaining nature, and still he nurtured thoughts of revenge, broadcast so plainly upon his unsophisticated face. But the change came in subtle responses of his body; the way his cocks swelled in anticipation of my attention. The way he watched me. I found myself struggling to properly identify it, until I made the connection with my former child playthings; they would slip rapidly and obviously into Stockholm Syndrome. My bat had done the same, just more subtly, and much more gradually. He had not progressed all the way there. But...he had come far.
	And maybe the same process had begun in me also? What would one term the syndrome of a predator finding affection for his prey? I had never been the kind of monster that loves and obsesses over that which he destroys; I used them out of need, not warped worship. But this one? This bat? Barty-boy, cock-breath, dickhead? Well...I had experienced some considerable changes in my mentality lately. Why not add another? Why not dabble with a normal, healthy relationship?
	I smiled to myself as we boarded the taxi. Normal and healthy. Hah. He sat awkwardly in the seat beside me as the driver cruised us towards his grubby little flat in the heart of a third-rate provincial town. I think perhaps he wanted to rail against my total invasion of his life, but couldn’t think how to do it without making things altogether worse for him. After all, so far hadn’t I so far only left him with a few bruises? A few mild burns? A smattering of aches and pains? So very trivial, compared to what I knew I could do, and what he no doubt suspected of me. Really, what greater sign of affection could he get?
	I laid my paw on his knee. He flinched. I met his gaze with another one of my brother’s playful smiles, and I watched as Barty’s expression fell into resigned misery.
	“Please,” he breathed. “Please don’t.”
	I ignored him. My fingertips crawled their way up his leg. I tapped against his opposite thigh, and he meekly spread his legs for me. The driver continued with his business of operating the vehicle, while in the back a femmy little gay mouse boy unzipped his bat boyfriend’s jeans and started to give his naked cock some very lewd strokes. Poor bat. He kept his mouth clenched shut, as he had done for days and days, whenever he could manage to. His breath stank of cock, more so than usual. I could only wonder what blue-balls felt like when one had two cocks. I knew what it tasted like; a constant, ever-present taste of precum musk, bathing his mouth at every hour of the day. A cock tongue that could taste itself. Like giving a constant blowjob to yourself. I reminded him of this shame often.
	“Thtahp ith thleath,” he moaned, his cock tongue breaching his lips and sliding out to full shameful erection. No hope of hiding it now. I watched the driver, wondering if he might notice, not truly caring whether he did or not; I only cared whether my bat worried about it.
	I let go of his cock with perfect timing, having become intimately attuned to its particular quirks. I knew I had got it right because his muffled moan sounded so beautifully miserable. Brought to the edge of orgasm once again, but denied at the last second.
	“Put yourself away, dear,” I said, patting his thigh. He scurried to stuff his aching, dripping cock back into his jeans, having to stuff it down against his thigh. No chance of hiding the other one, of course, and I basked in his radiating shame until we reached his home, where I made him pay the driver. There came a look in the driver’s eye; he had seen it, he was disgusted and confused by it, but he couldn’t think of what he could possibly say about it. But the look was enough, and my pet bastard stayed quiet and docile as he led me up to the dirty hole he called a home.
	And what a hole it was. It stank of unwashed male fur. The bed lay in a heap of sweaty, unwashed sheets. Clothes lay everywhere. The kitchen existed somewhere under the piles of filthy dishware. A large flat screen television stood in the living room, apparently clean. Before it, though, a coffee table sat strewn with discarded tissues. My, Barty, you have lived like a truly disgusting batchelor.
	I couldn’t bring myself to hate it. Another symptom of potential convergence with my brother, perhaps? Getting fired up by all this male sleaze? Or perhaps it felt like a view in the mirror, of how I would live were I to linger in one place long enough.
	I discovered a phone, half-buried amongst takeaway boxes. I scooped it up off its cradle and held it out towards him. He had managed to put some of his effort into getting his cocks to go down, it seemed, as it now only just peeked out from between his lips.
	“Why are you gibbin me dees?”
	“You will call up your parents, your friends, whoever you have in your life, and you are going to tell them the good news.”
	“Whuth good newth?”
	“The good news that you’ve found a wonderful new boyfriend, and he now lives with you, and you’re so very, very happy as a newly out gay bat.”
	“Futh off! I’m nuht ghay! I’m nuht doing that!”
	I watched as a drop of precum fell from his bobbing cock tongue and dribbled down his chin. I stepped towards him, and he cringed back against the door.
	“Othay othay I’ll do it!”
	
I feel that the bat and I reached a level of mutual respect at some point in that first afternoon in his flat. Alone amongst all the creatures of the universe, I witnessed his tears as his quavering, muffled and lisping voice confessed to his fresh new personal secret to those in his life whose opinion mattered to him. My reasons for subjecting him to this torment weighed mostly pragmatic, with the need to build a new alias for myself back in the strange land that I had once called home. And I felt a sadistic pleasure in watching his shame and misery in having to perform such an emotion act in such twisted and offensive circumstances.
	However…
	I watched as, phone call after phone call, his fearful tears segued into stunned silence, and then shaky nods and mumbled words of embarrassed love. The world contained many who cared for this shithead, and I don’t think he ever really realised to what extent that they did. Did he know how grateful he should be? Well, he did now. And as he put the phone down for the final time, his tongue softened away to a sensible size, he stared at me with a dumb, befuddled expression, red eyes now red rimmed and wet.
	“They...they’re all okay with it.”
	“Modern times, dickbreath. Why wouldn’t they?”
	“I’m not gay though!”
	“Want a drink?”
	He blinked. “Uh. Okay.”
	He fell into the broken down wreck of his sofa and let the phone fall out of his fingers, to wind up somewhere amongst the magazines piled on the floor. I went to the kitchen and ransacked, checking barren cupboards and a biohazard-level catastrophe of a fridge. But, behind a tin of peas dated 2003, I found a half-full bottle of cheap store-brand vodka. A quick swill of it around the bottom of a couple of tea-stained mugs brought them to levels of cleanliness that would probably not kill us outright, then poured a couple of loose swigs into the mugs, bringing them out to the sofa.
	“Here you go darling,” I said.
	“Shut up with all that stuff. I’m not your fucking boyfriend.”
	I perched on the coffee table, sweeping aside some of the tissues. I took a sip. It tasted like paint thinner. He drank too, seemingly far less bothered by the taste than me.
	“Your friends and family think otherwise.”
	“Only because you made me!” He wiped at his eye with his palm. “Fucker.”
	“Out of the kindness of my heart.”
	“The fuck do you mean by that?”
	“Do you really think,” I said, looking around me at the picturesque surroundings of his flat, “that you have much chance of landing a girlfriend?”
	“So what? Who wants a girlfriend when you can get bitches?”
	“Well,” I said, necking the rest of the vodka and grimacing at the burn. “You have a bastard now. Congratulations.”
	“Only because you’ll knife the fuck out of me in my sleep if I didn’t let you.”
	“Romantic, right?”
	His lip twitched. A smile, defeated in a second; but when I smiled in return, his flooded right back.
	“Fuck man. You’re a psycho.”
	I shrugged and set the mug down next to me.
	“Fuck,” he sighed, leaning back into the sofa. It creaked. “So, what, you’re just gonna move in here, keep messing up my life and turn it into a living hell?”
	“Pretty much.”
	“Why?”
	“I need a beard.”
	“A what?”
	“A beard...forget it.” More of my brother leaking in again? “I need a place to lay low, as they say in the movies.”
	“Why?”
	I leveled him a stare. Really? Really? He looked away, getting the message.
	“So…” he said, fiddling with his fingers, plucking nervously at the wing membrane webbed between them. “You gonna suck my cock then or what?”
	“Maybe.”
	“Come on, isn’t that the whole point of a gay boyfriend.”
	“Are you going to suck mine?”
	“Fuck no!”
	I shrugged, smiling. What then?
	He flailed a wing paw, and it occurred to me that his handling of this whole situation seemed very robust. No pleading, crying, appealing to my mercy, or attempts to tip me from my course. The new regime now existed, accepted, and his thoughts returned back to matters of importance; getting his rocks off.
	I stood up. He flinched, but steeled back to his grouchy glare. Still scared of me, then. Perhaps he’ll slit my throat in my sleep. I doubted it. But then, I’ve never really cared altogether too much about my personal safety. I planted my feet either side of his legs and stared fixedly at him as I unbuttoned my fly.
	“Hey, what the hell are you doing? Stop that.”
	I eased my cock free. Only half-hard, and only that far by effort of will rather than natural excitement. Whatever the crack down the centre of my brain does to me, it includes making sex altogether unhealthy. Separate from my unpleasant urges for the most part, but equal in perversity. I held my shaft, pink and smooth and pleasantly neat, an equal to the one my brother has so much pride for, and bobbed the tip at him.
	“Suck it,” I said.
	“No way!” He pressed his head back into the sofa, head turned to the side, one eye watching me.
	“Suck it, dickhead.”
	“Fuck you!”
	“Barty boy.”
	“Fuck you I said!”
	“Little bitch bat. You already have a cock in your mouth all the time. Why not one more?”
	“You fucking-”
	“Bet you’re curious.”
	He opened his mouth, gaped, then shut it. One flicker of a glance at my cock. Gotcha.
	“I mean,” I continued. “You were plenty fast in hitting on me when you thought me some gay little boat queen.”
	“That was...I was drunk! None of the bitches were biting. You were just there.”
	“And now?”
	He sucked in his lower lip, nibbled with his teeth. It came back glistening, with saliva and with precum. I could see the head of his cock tongue pushed up against the back of his teeth, swelling up hard again.
	“And now you’re here,” he said, a hint of a quaver in his voice.
	“Exactly.” I rolled my paw up my perfectly average cock, squeezing at the tip. “So suck it.”
	“I...I don’t…”
	I decided to help him along. I placed my paw on his head and sunk my fingers through his messy hair, and met little resistance as I pulled his mouth towards my cock. I felt his breath at the tip, and he pushed back against my paw.
	“I thant do thees,” he lisped, struggling around the flesh in his mouth.
	“Of course you can,” I soothed. “Though you’ll probably struggle to fit it in there with your cock taking up so much space. Here, let me help you.”
	I lifted my foot and brought it down on his crotch, squeezing it between my shoe and the beaten padding and broken springs of the sofa. I caught his squeal of pain with the muffling silence of my now hard cock, pushing in alongside his own. A blowjob and frottage all in one. And my, I really did feel like my brother with those words in my head. But I felt like myself again when he started to cry, his wing paws pressed against my thighs, weakly protesting. I dug my claws into his scalp and I ground my shoe, stubbing out a cigarette...stubbing out his aching cock and his fat heavy balls. I thought about giving him relief afterwards. I also thought about strapping him to his bed and beating him with my belt. I thought about making him lick his own toilet clean. I thought about stroking a razor blade in long, slow patterns over his heaving, quaking chest while he screamed and bawled into a thick and muffling sock gag. I thought about flicking a lighter over and over and watching the sparks and the flames bathe his balls and singe away the fur. I thought about a lot of things as I gripped his head and pistoned my hips to fuck my cock into his throat so that he gagged, feeling his precum drool against my crotch fur as my own trickled into his throat. And as I got to the end of the act, I pressed as much as my weight as I felt he could take, right down onto his cock, hearing him howl in mortal distress as I pumped my seed down into his convulsing throat.
	And as I sat back on the coffee table, pulling him roughly off the sofa and making him kneel and lap my cock clean, ignoring his perfectly understandable nursing of his poor abused cock, I thought about my future in general. Oh sure, I would keep after CKC. I would find that cat and inflict absolute horror onto him. And I would find the wolf and...what? I would decide at the time, I thought. But…
	...I imagined having this bat with me all the way. More than just a beard.
	I patted his head as he sobbed and lapped at my cock. Two cocks stroking together. As he lapped, he leaked more precum, and had more to lap up. Perpetual humiliation. I knew though, that once he had finished and his composure had recovered, he would return to his mouthy, nasty ways, and match me as my bastard once more.
	But for now I just closed my eyes...and enjoyed.